e. Presently somebody was
fumbling unsteadily at her left hand, whereon somebody a great deal more
nervous than she was trying to fix a plain gold ring. Someone at the
back of the church was making a disturbance.

The officiating clergyman raised his head in protest. Except the
exhortation, the ceremony was practically finished. A policeman appeared
out of somewhere and seemed to be expostulating with the intruder. Just
for a minute it looked as if there was going to be an open brawl.

"I tell you I must go up," somebody was saying, and just for a moment it
seemed to Beatrice that she was listening to the voice of Mark Ventmore.
"It is a matter of life and death."

Beatrice glanced up languidly at the silly society faces, the frocks and
the flowers. Did she dream, or was that really the pale face of Mark
that she saw? Mark had burst from the policeman--he was standing now
hatless before the altar.

"The ceremony must not go on," he said, breathlessly. There was a
nameless horror in his white face. "I--I feel that I am strangely out of
place, but it is all too dreadful."

Beatrice rose to her feet. There was some tragedy here, a tragedy
reflected in the ghastly face of her groom. And yet on his face was a
suggestion of relief, of vulgar triumph.

"What is it?" Beatrice asked. "Tell me. I could bear anything--_now_!"

"Your father!" Mark gasped. "We had to burst open his door. Sir Charles
was found in his bed quite dead. He had been dead for some hours when
they found him."

CHAPTER V

Mark Ventmore repeated his statement three times before anybody seemed
to comprehend the dread meaning of his words. The shock was so sudden,
so utterly unexpected by the majority of the people there. Of course
nobody in that brilliant throng had the least idea of the bride's
feelings in the matter, most of them were privileged guests for the
reception. They had been bidden to a festive afternoon, a theatre had
been specially chartered for the evening, with a dance to follow. This
was one of the smart functions of the season.

And now death had stepped in and swept everything away at one breath.
People looked at one another as if unable to take in what had happened.
There was a strange uneasiness that might have been taken for
disappointment rather than regret. Perhaps it partook of both. Somebody
a little more thoughtful than the rest gave a sign to the organist who
had begun to fill the church with a volume of triumpha